Sunstroke
by flawedesires
Summary: Apollo is the god every girl wishes for: beautiful, poetic, loving. But just how many have fallen to Apollo's charms? How many blinded? How many dead? Even he doesn't know. But while their names and their faces fade from his memory, their lives are written here.
1. Prologue

**Hello again! First off, let me just say that I'm sorry I haven't had time to update Voyage (in FOREVER), but school's been hectic and so has my family this past week. I'm lucky that I had a chance to keep reading other people's fanfictions at all. Has anyone else noticed that people are on a oneshot kick? Well anyway, that's where I got inspiration for this little piece.**

**Don't get blindsided by this part, this is only the prologue. (Believe me, I know I've already done a thing on this girl, but...yeah.)**

**Read it, won't you?**

* * *

><p><em>Run.<em>

That's the only thought in your head as you race through the city—this once _beautiful_ city, now stained with the _blood_ and the _horror_ that she—_Helen_—you spit the name with disgust—brought to your family, your kingdom. Your beautiful Troy has been brought to its _knees_, bathed in fire and surrounded by the screams of the tortured. For hours you had cowered under your bed in the palace, rocking back and forth and squeezing your eyes closed and _praying_ that you would wake up. But this time, as your sandaled feet slap the cobblestone ground and an arrow rips a lock of hair from your scalp, you know you're not dreaming.

"You! Girl!" you hear and you can't help but squeal and skid in the opposite direction. You can hear footfalls behind you and they sound so different from yours—heavy and painstakingly loud, while yours are flimsy and fleeting. The smoke-laced air drags in and out of your throat with a burning sensation, and it hurts, but you push yourself even harder because you can't let them catch you. And you thank the gods you know the city better than they, because you can feint towards an alley—a well-known dead end—and run through the shadows for the empty street. Except it's not so empty because there are bodies everywhere. At the sight of them a shudder hits you so hard you stumble into a wall. And you can't help but empty your stomach right there in the street.

"Find her!"

This jolts you. You wipe your mouth shakily and run again, and you feel somehow lighter without your last meal dragging you down. You can hear those footsteps again, but there are more now. And you hear the grunt of a man and the whistle of a weapon but you're too pained to move in time. And the javelin just barely scrapes your side. You scream.

You wad your dress to your side to staunch the blood and take just a second to throw an vase or two behind you. You're gleeful to hear the pained yell of a downed enemy—but the aim of a sixteen-year-old girl is not enough to save yourself. And so you keep running. And when you see the temple, glowing like a beacon, a haven of safe life in the distance, you immediately turn for it, zigzagging through run-off alleys and secret streets in a last attempt to throw your enemies off for _just_—_another_—_second_.

And it _works_. You're so relieved for just this moment of peace you're sobbing as you stumble through the back entrance of the temple—Athena's, you notice. But your clever escape wasn't enough, because you hear the Greeks just outside and you panic, like a scared mouse.

You trip on the steps leading to Athena's statue and hit the marble corners hard, cutting your hands. Blood weeps across the white floor. Whimpering, you hide behind her stone skirts. "Athena," you sob quietly. "Please, spare me." And you look deploringly at her beautiful face but it does not move.

"Little girl," a cruel voice croons, and it echoes through Athena's temple so terrifyingly you tremble and cry harder, because you know who he is and you know what happens to you, in the end.

And it's all you can do, before that Greek _takes _you, to write _his_ name in your blood and curse him for all he is worth, which is _nothing_.

And you take such joy in the fact that, as you sit in the ferry waiting for your turn and the weeping hole in your chest turns cold and his "gift" still remains, you can see him in his oh-so glorious palace, sobbing for you and crooning your name to himself, as if saying it over and over will redeem him.

_Oh Cassandra, my sweet Cassandra…_

Except, it won't.

* * *

><p><strong>And...fin. I love and pity Cassandra so much. Just to think about what happened to her... *shudder* Well, this is only the prologue, so there is definitely more to come.<strong>

**And if you are a fan of Voyage and care at all after my long (loonngg) absence, I promise that I AM working on that. It's just difficult because I feel like it's gotten boring, you know? Ugh -.- But don't worry, I plan to have the next chapter of that up soon (if my homework and finals don't get in the way -.- FML).**

**Love you!**

**~ Mia ~**


	2. The Healing Process

**Why, hello again(: I have another chapter for you! But before I give it to you, I should explain something first.**

**Cassandra was a princess of Troy, the younger sister of Paris. Apollo fell in love with her when she was young and tried to woo her, even bestowing upon her the gift of prophecy. But she didn't return it, and he became so furious he cursed her so that no one would ever believe her predictions. And sure enough, she foresaw what would happen (the Trojan War) and tried to tell the king, but her own family was so afraid of her they kept her shut away and called her "mad." In the end, she escaped from the palace and sought comfort from Athena in her temple, but the goddess turned her back on her (or so one story says; others say she simply didn't have a chance to save her), even when Ajax the Lesser kidnapped (and, er...had his way with) Cassandra and gave her to Agamemmnon, king of Mycanae as a mistress. Cassandra was eventually murdered by Agamemmnon's jealous scheming wife, Clytemnestra (who was, coincedentally, Helen of Troy's sister).**

**Well anyway, I presumed that Apollo would've felt guilty as hell after what he did to a poor innocent girl like Cassandra. Hence, this chapter. And this story isn't just about Cassandra, you'll see.**

* * *

><p><span>Greece, 383 B.C.<span>

_Mortals are so dense,_ he thinks. Here he is, god of the _sun_ for gods' sake, and do they even notice? _No_. Many of them merely glance in his direction, curious at why such a handsome young man is sitting on the edge of a fountain alone. Some wonder what he's doing. A few blink at him, as if they can sense his power but not quite. He sighs.

None of them are right.

"Oracles are a part of divine life," his mother had prodded a few months ago on his birth island.

"Olympus needs one," his father had decreed a week ago.

"Find one, you _fool_," his oh-so kind sister had hissed in his ear that morning.

He'd agreed each and every time. And so here he is again, lazily watching the people pass, eyeing each girl and mentally rejecting them. Once in a while, one would catch his eye. A lock of shining golden hair, a flash of fierce blue eyes, a strip of clear pale skin that seems irresistible. But for the most part, he sees flaws. That one too fat, that one too tall, that one too stupid. None of them are just right.

"Apollo," a voice says. It's feminine, small, and high-pitched. The voice of a child. He wonders if any of the mortals see something strange about them—a handsome youth in a tunic side-by-side with a young girl not more than twelve. Maybe they would be brother and sister, like they are in reality. But no, they look too dissimilar for that. Maybe she would be a rich heiress and he her tutor. But this body is too young for that.

She sighs, a quick huff of air that emphasizes both her irritation and her ability to read his thoughts. "You're not even trying," she says bluntly.

Without looking, he lifts his face to the sun, eyes closed. "Why should I?" he asks, tiredly.

The small auburn-haired girl sitting beside him makes an irritated noise at the back of her throat. "Because," she hisses exasperatedly. She would have gone on, but they're receiving strange looks so she inches closer and lowers her voice to a whisper. And through their telepathic link, he can feel her irritation pique. "Everyone is waiting for you," she urges. "The gods have no one to consult before universe-changing decisions, demigods have no way of knowing their purpose—"

"They aren't supposed to know their purpose," he says back, peeking at her.

"You know what I mean!" One eye, disguised as a clear blue, flickers to a luminous yellow as she fumes. He raises an eyebrow. She takes a deep breath. The iris returns to blue. "The world isn't balanced with you holding the spirit back. I swear on the gods if I get another Iris-message pleading me to implore you of all people—"

"Well I'm sorry to inconvenience you," he snaps. And she pauses, because she's supposed to be the cold, frigid one, not him.

She sighs, leans back. "You're not over her," she says simply.

He sucks in a breath to keep from jerking in surprise, but she keeps going, oblivious of his discomfort. "Apollo, it's been years," she tells him, as if she doesn't know.

"It doesn't matter how much time has passed," he says evenly between his teeth, trying not to snap at her. "It's still my fault she suffered so."

He can feel her rolling her eyes beside him, and he knows she doesn't understand. "It is your fault," she says, and the impatience in her voice steals the sincerity from her words like winter steals life from trees. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, annoyed at her bluntness, but she only continues on. "But none of us helped. Whose fault was it that you fell in love with her?" A pang goes through his chest. He opens his mouth to answer but she doesn't give him a chance.

"Whose fault was it that she didn't love you?" she fires off.

"Mine," he interrupts. He's horrified to hear pain in his own voice.

"Aphrodite's," the girl spits. Half of the venom in the name is her disdain for the fellow Olympian, the other her disgust at the goddess's actions. And as if her words don't sting enough she keeps going in that rapid-fire way that won't let him get a word in edgewise. "Whose fault was it that her whole family hated her and feared her?"

"Mine, mine," he mumbles, weakened by the fire in her voice.

"Hera's!" his sister cries angrily. She leans in closer, the blue completely gone from her irises, and his subconscious makes note of her lack of control; normally she'd be annoyed at a tiny slip-up of his, and yet she does it with ease. The glowing yellow narrows. "Whose fault was it that Ajax got what he wanted from her so easily? Athena's! Whose fault was it that Clytemnestra murdered her without a shred of punishment? Zeus's!"

"No!" He yells it in her face and finally—_finally_—she shuts up, because he's never raised his voice like this at her. And people are staring—mortals are seeing—and he grabs her arm and pulls her through thin air to a place where they can go unseen. And he's glad to know, somewhere deep in his bottomless mind, that the Mist is quick to cover what the mortals have observed.

He's begun yelling before they've even materialized. "_I_ fell in love with her!" he bellows. It echoes around his palace painfully. "_I_ was furious she felt nothing for me! _I_ cursed her! _I_ made her own kingdom hate her! _I_ didn't save her! Hell, I might as well have _guided_ Clytemnestra's blade to her heart!"

"But you didn't!" she screams back. She tears away from him as if their gazes were physically glued, whirls away with a swish of silver. She points at him. "She is dead, Apollo, and for the good of Troy, for the good of the future and by the will of the Fates! It was by not your wish, your actions, or your mere thoughts!" Her eyes burn liquid silver. "I suggest you right yourself over it, before Father gets angry!" And then she's gone, run back to her Hunt in a shower of silver, leaving quite utterly alone.

Much like Cassandra did.

* * *

><p><strong>I thought putting a little Artemis in there would be more interesting(: And that last line, well, that's Apollo's view, isn't it? Not trying to be unfair to poor Cassandra here, promise.<strong>

**Thoughts?(:**

**~ Mia ~**


End file.
